Page 61 of Stalked
This isn't about escaping him. Not really. It's about making the inevitable capture worthwhile.
I pass back through the room filled with sensory deprivation equipment—blindfolds, noise-canceling headphones, isolationtanks. Another turn leads me to the fire play room, with warming oils and ice buckets carefully arranged.
My breath quickens, but not from exertion. During my years at The Red Room, I explored many facets of submission. Now, running through this maze with Vane hunting me, I feel a thrill of anticipation about what lines we might cross together.
What hasn't he shown me yet? What darkness does he want to introduce me to?
I pause at another junction, straining to identify the sounds echoing through the concrete corridors. A woman's muffled cry of pleasure reverberates off the hard surfaces—another prey caught by her hunter. The metallic clank of a door closing somewhere in the distance reminds me that we're not alone in this elaborate game.
The soft clink of what might be a belt buckle sounds behind me, and I freeze. Is it Vane? Or has another predator caught my scent? The thought should terrify me, but instead, adrenaline floods my system with electric anticipation because no one else can claim me now.
Here, pursued through Purgatory's manufactured hunting ground by a man who's stalked me for years, I'm drawn to something far less civilized. The distinction between fear and arousal blurs with each shadowed corner I turn.
I choose the path to the right and move forward, my steps no longer those of someone escaping but of someone beckoning. The Hunt has transformed me from quarry into collaborator.
When I turn the next corner, I freeze in my tracks. The corridor opens into a chamber unlike any I've seen so far—the walls lined with glossy black tiles that reflect the dim red lighting. But what makes my breath catch is the metal spikes emerging from every surface. Dozens, maybe hundreds of sharp spines extending from the floor, the walls, even hanging from the ceiling.
My heart pounds against my ribs. The spikes form a labyrinth within this room, creating narrow pathways between their threatening points. I take a tentative step forward, drawn by a morbid fascination.
“Careful,” I whisper to myself, though no one's around to hear.
The air carries a metallic scent mingled with incense. As I venture deeper, I notice the spikes aren't actually designed to pierce—they're positioned close enough to create the illusion of danger without causing real harm. The psychological effect is far more potent than any physical threat.
In the center of the room stands a raised platform surrounded by a circumference of spikes. Thick leather restraints hang from its surface, and suspended above are various bladed instruments glinting in the red light.
I forget in that moment about running or that Vane is pursuing me. My fingers reach out, tracing the air just above one spike's tip. The combination of fear and arousal tightens my chest, making it difficult to breathe.
I step toward the central platform, mesmerized by the artistic arrangement of knives hanging above it. Each blade catches the light differently, creating a constellation of reflections across the black tiles.
“For someone who's been running for fifteen years, you're not very good at it.”
I whirl around, heart leaping into my throat. Vane stands at the entrance, mask still in place, his broad shoulders blocking the only visible exit. I hadn't heard him approach—hadn't even thought to listen for footsteps.
Vane moves through the forest of metal spikes with effortless grace, never once looking down to watch his step. His eyes remain fixed on me, predatory and intent. The red light castsshadows across his mask, making him appear more menacing than before.
“You found my favorite room,” he says, his voice a low rumble.
I stand my ground on the platform, though every instinct tells me to retreat. There's nowhere to go anyway—he's between me and the only exit.
“Is this what you had in mind when you mentioned blood play?” I ask, gesturing to the array of blades.
He reaches the platform and steps up to join me, his body so close I can feel the heat radiating from him. With deliberate slowness, he lifts his hand and runs a finger along one of the knives.
“Have you played with knives before, Lia?” His question is casual, but his eyes are intense behind his mask, studying my reaction. “You said you hadn’t experienced blood play, but knife play doesn’t always draw blood.”
I swallow hard and shake my head. “No. Never.”
“Not even at your precious Red Room?” There's a hint of jealousy in his voice.
“No,” I whisper. “It always seemed too... extreme. Too sadistic. Too debased.”
Vane reaches out, tracing the line of my collarbone with the same finger that had just touched the knife. My skin prickles at his touch, goosebumps rising despite the warmth of the room.
“And now?” he asks.
I look up at the gleaming blades, then back to his face. Something about his intensity, his complete focus on me, makes me want to surrender to experiences I'd always considered beyond my limits.
“Now,” I say, my voice steadier than I expected, “with you... I want to try.”
